Closer
by Min Daae
Summary: You can have my isolation, you can have the hate that it brings: you can have my absence of faith, you can have my everything. Oberyn/Elia, sex, implied incest, mention of rape.


"I love you."

It was the first time he had ever said it; the first, and possibly the only time he ever would, or so he thought then. He was young, and (at least arguably) stupid, and he took her face between his hands and told her he loved her.

She frowned at him, a little, then. "Oberyn, sometimes I think you just like to be dramatic."

It wasn't uncommon then, after everyone was asleep, for her to come into his room and lie under the covers with him, talking in low voices, and sometimes not talking and just letting their mouths talk for them, exploring the salty-spice-sweet taste of each other's skin. Never more than that, and that was all right. The way her skin quivered when he kissed her neck was exciting enough; the way the warm stream of her breath felt whispering behind his ear graven on his memory with something approaching reverence.

But he grew older, and here, and now, his long and dexterous hands cupped her face and his black and glittering eyes found hers, smiling mouth set with uncommon solemnity. The words were not hard to say. "I love you."

She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, hair that she braided and played with because he would let her, and because they both craved the physical contact, wanted so badly to touch and be touched.

"I love you, Oberyn," she said, softly, and kissed his forehead then his mouth, and her lips were warm and soft and sweet as peaches, but he knew she didn't mean it in the same way. He didn't protest, though, didn't try to correct the misunderstanding, just let his hands slide down to clasp around her neck, head tilting back as he savored the feeling of her fingers in his hair.

--

Elia and Oberyn had always been closest of their siblings.

Perhaps it was easier because they were closer in age, hardly a year apart. It caused no end of trouble, really, but there were never any mishaps, though when playing with other children Oberyn tended to leave behind a trail of scrapes, bruises, and tears. It wasn't that he _meant _to hurt them, it was just that he was rather careless about their well being.

With Elia, though – Elia somehow managed to escape miraculously unscathed from every encounter with her barely-younger brother, and for quite a time it was always for her that he got into scrapes. For Elia he climbed a tree at the Water Gardens only to fall and break his arm trying to get her a choice blood orange. Elia didn't seem to like the lengths her brother would go to for her whims. Oberyn didn't seem the least bit concerned. But then, Oberyn concerned himself about little.

--

There were days, sometimes, in the Water Gardens, when the men would be shooed away and escorted with care elsewhere. When he was sixteen Oberyn was concerned for his sister, knowing how fragile she could be and afraid for her safety. He held back, just to be certain.

He watched as Elia slipped out of her light summer dress and shed her undergarments, watched as she tossed her head and rich black hair in that way that made his heart stutter. Then she turned, though, and her eyes went wide and her hand went to her mouth briefly, before she was scrambling for her clothes – "_Oberyn?_" And flushing, he dropped his eyes and fled, leaving the young women to their mysteries.

He didn't forget, though, couldn't erase the image from his mind of his sister in a swirl of black hair, the fragility of her slender frame but even more the curve from her waist to her narrow hips, and the triangle that formed where her legs met her body.

It wasn't about the sex – wasn't about her sex, much as he wanted sometimes to cup her breasts in his hands and let his mouth linger on that dark and sensitive circle of skin. It was more than that, deeper than that, stronger than that.

And it was only worse that he knew it wasn't because of her nakedness she'd been ashamed – pressed so close so many nights, how could it be? But her freedom, her joy in life she had been on the verge of taking – that shamed her.

She came back that night and hung in the doorway, whispered, "I'm sorry," and he remembered half sitting up and holding out his arms and just saying, "For what?"

She understood.

--

They were stealing her. The man with the silver hair and the dishonest violet eyes was stealing his beautiful sister, and he was unashamed to admit that yes, he was jealous. Who would braid his hair, who would find those little places Elia knew and no one else did that made him shiver? He understood the necessity, of course, and knew that Elia was terribly frightened.

He would never encourage that fear. If he played on it, perhaps he could have kept her, but keeping her caged was worse than losing her. And she seemed to love this dragon-prince, in the way she had never loved him.

Donning the finest clothes he could find, he went to the city and found a whorehouse.

They asked no questions, though he knew they recognized him, and he half imagined he could smell the anxious nerves among the ladies who came forward boldly to offer themselves. He ignored them, letting black eyes sweep their ranks, and found them settling on a slight and small girl, likely his age or younger.

He sat down beside her, knowing that she watched his catlike walk across the floor, the stride of a predator. He smiled, slightly, and took her chin in one hand, raising her eyes to his. "Come," he murmured, voice low, rich, husky, though he was hardly aware of it, "My name is Oberyn."

He took her to one of the rooms, rejecting two before he settled on one he liked, where he held the door open for the little slip of a girl – he didn't bother to ask her name. It would be false anyway. Oberyn closed the door, and quietly.

She looked terrified, but he gave her no chance to speak, laying a finger on her lips. "I will not hurt you," he promised her, and somehow, the tension left her and she nodded, slowly.

He'd decided before coming that he would make the girl of his choice scream, and not with pain. He kissed her, first, just as he would have kissed Elia, drew her to the bed and lay down with their bodies just touching, still clothed, letting his mouth explore her skin. She tasted saltier than his sister, less sweet. But she whimpered softly in a way Elia never had when his tongue found the hollow above her collarbone. Her hands stroked his arms. Her fingers tried to go to his shirt and he broke away to ease them down and continued kissing.

When she was panting and breathless, he took her face between his hands and looked her in the eyes, considered.

He didn't want to say it. He kissed her mouth instead. She didn't taste like peaches; more like oranges. He liked the former more, but he didn't stop kissing her, letting his hands undo her dress, the easy kind to unlace and pull away from her breasts. She fit warmly in his hands and arched her back, and it was with care that he moved his mouth to take one nipple in his mouth.

This time when she moved to remove his shirt, he didn't stop her, and when his breeches followed he let them go as well. But slipping the dress off her when she tried to touch him, he caught her hand and squeezed her wrist, just a little, with a razor edged smile, and bit one of her fingers lightly, in scolding.

He let his mouth move down her body instead, lingering on all the places he'd always wanted to touch – breathing into her skin. Her whimpers were louder, now, and when his mouth found rest between her thighs they became a soft and strangled cry.

"Lord-"

He silenced her by turning his head into her inner thigh and taking a deep breath of her smell. Musk and sex, a subtle kind of perfume. He wondered what Elia would smell like. Wondered if her dragon-prince would ever know.

Oberyn turned his head and flicked his tongue out, tasted her moisture once before letting it seek deeper for her slit. He could feel her quiver under his mouth, taste her desire, and felt both sensations settle in his groin as a dull but increasingly sharp ache.

She was shaking when he pulled his mouth away and moved his body back up hers. She arched her hips upward, seeking his cock, and opened her mouth, moaned, "Please, lord, fuck-"

He didn't want to hear that word, didn't want it to sully this. He took her mouth instead, captured her tongue with his to bind it from saying what she would have, slid into her and _made love. _

His strokes were long and slow and gentle, angled to rub against her, and he could feel her chest heave under his, could feel her shake and shudder with the pleasure he was giving her. Sweat beaded on her forehead, mouth open in a little 'o', and it only aroused him further.

He knew when she was about to come, and let go of her mouth, tasted her skin again instead – the salt stronger with her sweat. He felt her clench around him, felt her shaking, but mostly he listened:

"Gods _gods _oh _oh Oberyn-!_"

He wasn't finished, but he pulled out of her after that, and let her take him in her mouth and bring him to his climax that way. She swallowed his seed and when he was done encouraged him to lay his head on her lap. He did, and she ran her fingers through his hair.

Oberyn closed his eyes.

"My Lord-"

"Don't speak," he murmured, and turned, and took her face between his hands again, lips only inches from hers, and framed the first word. Her eyes were very blue, he noticed, like sky. They stared transfixed into his own black ones, like a rodent that could not look away from the hypnotizing gaze of a snake.

He released her and stood, going to his clothes, pulling them on. "Thank you," he said, simply, lay twice what he should have paid on the dresser and strode out before she could speak again.

He stayed up late that night, waiting, but Elia didn't come.

--

_I will not bow to a murderer of a king! _

Fury pounded hot in his veins. He stalked out of the palace anyway, and down into the city. The nearest brothel was of no particular quality and worse reputation. He found a girl who might have been Elia, in the dark, if one did not look too closely. At the moment, it did not matter.

In the room, once alone, he took her face between his hands and brought her eyes to his. She looked at him, and he could see her fear, and wondered if Elia had been afraid. Wondered if the Mountain had found climax between her sweet, slender thighs. Wondered if her lips still smelled like peaches after she was dead.

He wanted to snarl. He held it in and said it defiantly, then. And did what he should have done a long time before. "I love you," he said, and kissed her with all the passion in him.

_Elia. Elia. Elia._

Her name was the beat of his strokes, but it wasn't her name he cried when he came. It was his, i_his/i, _and a promise of vengeance. Snakes do not forgive.

Nor do they forget.


End file.
